


Bittersweet

by dr_girlfriend



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q Reverse Bang, Action/Adventure, Angst, Feels, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Skyfall, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:39:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2813939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_girlfriend/pseuds/dr_girlfriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Bond flirted with Q, it was purely out of self-defense.<br/>The second time Bond flirted with Q was largely manipulation.<br/>The third time Bond flirted with Q, he just wanted to feel <i>something</i>.<br/>The fourth time Bond flirted with Q was out of sheer boredom.</p><p>Somehow, flirting with Q became something of a habit for Bond.  </p><p>And then, it became something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bjobjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjobjo/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Daphne and Apollo](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/88604) by bjobjo. 



> I don't think this is anywhere near dub-con, but just for those who might be especially attuned to those issues; There is a general theme of Bond pursuing Q romantically and Q reciprocating and/or resisting to varying degrees, and Bond is kind of an arsehole about it. There is one attempted kiss that is unwelcome but doesn't happen. Hope that helps!
> 
> The amazing hyperlinked art is by bjobjo, (bjodoodles on Tumblr)
> 
> I write fanfiction for fandom spaces. Please do not add my fics to Goodreads or other indexing sites, excerpt them for press, or in other ways share them outside of fandom spaces. Thanks!

The first time Bond flirted with Q, it was purely out of self-defense.  

Sitting on a hard bench in the National Gallery, his red-rimmed eyes staring at the blurry outline of a decrepit old warship being hauled off for scrap, Bond felt every bit as old and broken and useless as the Temeraire.  

He was so caught up in his own exhaustion and self-pity that he completely dismissed the young man who sat down next to him.  A fleeting impression of the man’s eccentric clothing, the posh voice and pretentious conversation, and Bond curtly dismissed him, preparing to move on.  

And so, when the man responded to Bond’s brush-off with a calm, “007,” Bond had been completely taken aback.  Even worse, he knew that his surprise had been evident on his face.  Years of training and experience in both maintaining a poker face and reading others, and apparently it had all been shot to hell by three months of Turkish sun and black market pain pills and shots of scotch taken with a side of scorpion-fueled adrenaline.  

Mallory’s words echoed in Bond’s ears as humiliation curled in his gut.   _There's no shame in saying you've lost a step.  The only shame would be not admitting it until it's too late._

More than the aggravation of the psych tests, more than the indignity of the physical fitness and marksmanship tests — that moment more than any other revealed to Bond exactly how close he truly was to being unfit for service.  Bond had exposed himself, completely and embarrassingly, in front of this insolent _pup_ of a Quartermaster.  

And so he compensated in the best way he knew how, covering his discomfiture with cheekiness.  Needling the young man almost instinctively, pulling his pigtails with a wink and a smirk.  And the man responded beautifully.  Every one of Bond’s attempts to rile him made him calmer instead — his voice more controlled, slow and deliberate blinks obscuring the grey-green vividness of his eyes.  He rose to Bond’s every challenge with one of his own, and Bond didn’t miss the appreciative flicker of those eyes over Bond’s body before the young man deliberately took his leave, stiff-backed and composed to the end.

Bond smiled to himself.  “Brave new world.”

* * *

The second time Bond flirted with Q was largely manipulation.  Something was wrong with the Silva mission, Bond could feel it.  Silva was in a prison jumpsuit, in a secure holding cell in the bowels of the new MI6 headquarters, and yet — despite the struggle, despite the death of Severine —  it had all been a little too...easy.  Silva had the world at his feet, riches untold, and yet Bond had managed to capture him with five minutes of hand-to-hand combat and a _radio?_

No, the oily suspicion that something was still wrong slithered under Bond’s skin, and his allies in MI6 were few and far between.  So Bond brought Silva’s laptop to Q like an offering.  As his suspicions crystallized into certainty and he pursued Silva through London, he bantered with Q over comms.  Somehow, magically, it paid off.

Against all logic, against all common sense and self-preservation, when Bond asked Q to help him, laying an electronic trail for Silva to follow, the young man had simply sighed, “So much for my promising career in espionage,” and complied.


	2. Chapter 2

The third time Bond flirted with Q, he just wanted to feel _something_.  

It had been a week since he had pulled himself out of a frigid Scottish tarn, lungs aching and head pounding, the burning remains of his childhood home a red-orange haze in the sky behind him.  One week since M — _his_ M — had bled out in his arms.  On _his_ watch, because of _his_ plan.  He had thought that nothing in the world could kill that tough old bitch, but of course that wasn’t true.  Now she was just another corpse in his wake, another shadow in his nightmares, and he couldn’t get the taste of blood and ash out of his mouth

Despite the warming blankets of the evac team, despite showers so hot they scalded his skin and the endless shots of Scotch he had poured down his gullet in the week since he returned, Bond still felt the cold numbness of the tarn smothering him.  It was dark and deep and he was sinking, drowning —

He dutifully presented himself at M’s funeral — a pompous affair of endless speeches that M would have unequivocally despised — aware but uncaring of the sidelong glances directed his way.  Not many people were privy to exactly how M had died, but every single one of that select group was in attendance.  No one approached him, and he preferred it that way.  He sat in the back, the unforgiving pew amplifying every ache in his battered body, and let the cold numbness wash over him.

“Pull yourself together, 007,” he imagined M saying, her voice scathing.  “Enough of this self-pitying nonsense.”  He could hear her voice so clearly —  could hear the scrape of her heel as she stumbled to her knees in the dim chapel behind Skyfall, see the black spread of blood beneath her cooling body…

He swallowed drily, tasting ashes, his throat closing up as his blood pounded in his veins.  He breathed in sharply through his nose, standing unhurriedly and making his way to the back of the church, past dusty curtains and into a warren of dim hallways, turning at random and then finally pushing a heavy oak door open, hoping it would lead to the outside.  

“Pardon,” he said, starting to automatically back out of the room when he saw it was occupied.  The slim dark-suited figure whirled around and it took Bond a moment before recognition dawned.  [The Quartermaster’s eyes were wide and startled behind his thick-rimmed spectacles, a blush pinkening his cheeks, his shoulders hunched defensively over the cigarette he held in his hands.  ](https://33.media.tumblr.com/886dfa0dd705a49bce6b4ffc07188b7c/tumblr_ngwzjaF6my1to0gq8o2_1280.jpg)

“Smoking in church, Quartermaster?”  Bond stepped inside, the heavy door closing behind him with a solid thud.  “How sacrilegious.”

“Yes, well.”  Q looked sheepish for a moment as he straightened up, taking a quick drag from the cigarette and letting the smoke trickle slowly out his nose.  “I’ll use it to light a candle in penance on my way out.”  His eyes sparked with mischief.  “Isn’t that how it works?  I never really got on board with the whole —” he waved the hand holding the cigarette in an elegant, encompassing gesture “ — religious thing.”  

Bond watched those pink lips quirk into a slight smile before they wrapped around the cigarette again.  It was downright obscene.  Watching those lips, the glow of the cigarette flaring as Q dragged the smoke down into his lungs, Bond experienced the first flicker of warmth he had felt in a week.  He wanted to chase that flicker, his feet moving him towards Q almost against his volition, seeking something that would penetrate this cold numb haze and make him feel again.  

He stopped just a step in front of Q, breathing in the warm rich scent of the man’s shaving soap mixed with the aroma of cigarette smoke.  “Neither did I,” he said, holding his hand out, watching Q’s nimble fingers closely as he tapped a cigarette out of the pack and into Bond’s waiting palm.  

Bond had a lighter on him, he always did, but still he crowded closer into the heat of Q’s body.  He was sure Q had a lighter as well, and yet those grey-green eyes met his, calm and deliberate, as Q sucked in a deeper breath, making the cherry on his cigarette glow so that Bond could light his off it.  Their faces were intimately close for a moment, long enough for Bond to see the dark length of Q’s eyelashes behind the thick lenses of the spectacles, to appreciate the barest shadow of stubble on the sweet curve of his jaw, the glisten he left behind on his lips as he nervously ran his tongue over them —

Q was the first to pull back, arranging himself against a filing cabinet with a nonchalance that was a little too forced.  Bond smirked but joined him, both of them smoking in silence for awhile, taking turns flicking their ashes into a styrofoam cup with a sludge of coffee residue in the bottom that Q had found somewhere.

Bond felt the smoke curl through his lungs, scouring away the smothered feeling, the racing of his pulse now the familiar and addictive pull of nicotine rather than the unsettling harbinger of panic.  He let his mind wander, imagining the droning voices of diplomats and bureaucrats still carrying on in the nave, pushing their political agenda over M’s cold embalmed body.

“She’d have hated it,” Q said, his voice quiet but bitter, and Bond had to hide his startlement at hearing his thoughts seemingly spoken aloud.  

“Yeah,” he finally agreed, his voice rough.   _From the cigarette, of course,_ he thought as he cleared his throat.  He had wanted the numbness to fade, but this wasn’t what he had hoped for.  He didn’t want to feel _this_ , this —

So he leaned in closer, letting his eyes drag appreciatively down the length of Q’s neck to his starched collar, and then back up to linger on those lips, once again being wetted nervously by Q’s impudent pink tongue.  “Fancy a drink, Quartermaster?” he asked, letting his voice rumble with every ounce of insinuation he could manage.

Q’s lips quirked again and Bond took it as confirmation.  He leaned in further, anticipating the first taste, before a warm palm against his chest stopped him, Q’s surprisingly wiry strength bracing Bond a hand’s breadth away. Bond’s eyes darted up to meet Q’s and his stomach turned sour.  It wasn’t lust, but rather pity in those grey-green depths, Q’s mouth quirked not in invitation but in _apology_.  

Bond clenched his jaw, leaning back against the cabinet at Q’s side and taking another rough drag of his cigarette, letting it burn down to his fingers.  He could feel Q’s gaze on him but avoided his eyes, finally dropping the stub into the cup with an angry hiss.  

Q reached out slowly, telegraphing his every move, and Bond couldn’t help looking as Q took Bond’s right hand into both of his, coaxing Bond’s fingers into uncurling from the angry fist he hadn’t even realized he had made.  Q hummed thoughtfully as he brushed cool fingertips over the new cigarette burn on Bond’s trigger finger, the cracked and swollen knuckles from the hand-to-hand-combat in Scotland, the various scrapes and nicks from flying glass as Skyfall had exploded all around him.

Bond was just about to do _something_ — push even closer or draw angrily away, he wasn’t sure — when Q fumbled in his own pocket and then pressed the crumpled and half-empty cigarette packet into Bond’s palm.

“Good evening,” he said.  “Commander Bond.”  There was no mockery in his voice, only quiet gravity, and that somehow made it worse.  Bond watched in bitter silence as Q turned and left, the mop of curls and the stiff slim back silhouetted briefly in the doorway before the heavy oak door swung sedately shut behind him.  

Bond cursed and lit another cigarette.


	3. Chapter 3

The fourth time Bond flirted with Q was out of sheer boredom.

For all that the life of a field agent was punctuated by outbursts of violence and the occasional dramatic explosion, the vast majority of fieldwork consisted of tedious, mind-numbing _waiting_.  Bond had been watching the same window in the same office block for days on end, and he was half mad from the unbelievable boredom of it.

Each of his shifts was twelve hours and thirty minutes, allowing for fifteen minutes of overlap on each end with the agent who was covering the alternate shifts, no doubt going equally mad in a flat nearby.  Twelve hours and thirty minutes of staring at a blank window — sometimes through the scope of the sniper rifle mounted to the window sill, often just with bare, bleary, red-rimmed eyes. 

Bond heartily begrudged each one of those extra thirty minutes, and — perhaps irrationally — had taken to blaming the meticulous Quartermaster for them.  As if twelve hours of soul-crushing dullness weren’t enough.  Q probably didn’t trust the agents to clock in on time.  Even five minutes at the end of each shift would have been enough for added reassurance.  But no, Q — prim, proper, _diabolical_ Q — probably enjoyed the thought of tormenting the agents by keeping them on shift just that little bit longer.

On the fifth day Bond snapped.  He had been subjecting Q to long, castigating rants in his head for days now, and he was finally fed up enough to take this conversation outside of his imagination.  He activated his shirt-collar microphone.

“Q,” he hissed, spoiling for a fight.

“007.”  Q’s response was immediate.  “Action?”

“No, there’s no _action_ ,” Bond responded snidely.  “Whatever is the _furthest possible state_ from action, _that_ is what is happening here.”  He tried to shrug some of the tension from his shoulders, shifting his knees on the mattress he had dragged to the window to kneel upon.  “The closest thing to action I’ve seen today is eating a dry sandwich and pissing into a damned bottle.”

“Please, 007,” Q said, his voice tinged with dry amusement.  “Regale me with more tales of the glamorous world of international espionage.”

Bond fought down the smile that threatened to quirk his mouth.  He was _angry_ , goddammit.

“I blame _you_ for this mission, Q,” Bond grumbled.  “This assignment could have been completed from Q Branch by a bloody motion-detecting camera and a remote-activated weapon.”

“Mmmm,” Q hummed thoughtfully, his fingers tapping on a distant keyboard.  “I seem to recall someone telling me that it was all about knowing when a trigger needed to be pulled.  In fact, you made a very convincing point that _you_ were the one with that highly specialized knowledge.”

“I _knew_ it,” Bond said darkly, half impressed that Q remembered their meeting at the National Gallery well enough to rub Bond’s nose into his ill-considered boasting.  “You’re trying to punish me.”

“When I’m punishing you, 007, you’ll know it,” Q said crisply.  And _Christ_ , Q probably hadn’t meant to insinuate anything in the slightest, and yet Bond had to suck in a sharp breath through his nose as his aggravation transmuted instantly to arousal.  He blinked against the sudden mental image of Q looming over him, those clever hands tugging firmly at Bond’s hair, those stormy grey-green eyes examining Bond for weaknesses, Q’s brilliant mind evaluating Bond’s every reaction, knowing just where to push…

Bond’s voice was a rough purr when he spoke again.  “You’ve already had me on my knees for days now, Quartermaster.  What more could you possibly want?”

He heard the the swift intake of breath on the other end of the line, the sudden silence as the incessant tapping of Q’s fingers on the keyboard abruptly ceased.  He was so focused on listening for Q’s reaction that he almost missed the flicker of movement in the window of the building across the street.  Almost.

“Stand by,” he muttered into the moment of taut silence, his focus sharpening with cold clarity.  “Target acquired.”  He sighted down the scope, making out the long dark form of the hostile’s rifle, following the barrel up to where the hostile’s head was bent over his own weapon.  Bond breathed in slowly — once, twice, and then a third time, judging the wind from the fluttering flag down the street.  On the respiratory pause of the third breath he squeezed, a slow and steady pull on the trigger until the shot broke.  

“Target down.”

Q’s voice was equally brisk and businesslike, keyboard once again clattering at double-time in the background.  “Kill confirmed.  Leave the weapon.  Proceed to the extraction point.  Pickup at 1800 hours.”

Bond was already pulling the door to the depressing little room shut behind him, grip bag in his hand.

“Copy that.”

“Good work, 007.”  Q disconnected the comm without waiting for a response.  

Bond stepped out of the building, seeming not to notice the small cluster of people pointing at the broken window across the street.  He continued unhurriedly through the gathering dusk, muscles protesting the sudden activity after long hours of immobility.  

He wound his way through the small back streets of the foreign city, preoccupied with wondering exactly what in the hell Q would have said if they hadn’t been interrupted.  Five damn days Bond had waited for something to happen, and yet now he found himself fervently wishing that he could have waited just a few moments more. 


	4. Chapter 4

Somehow, flirting with Q became something of a habit for Bond.  

* * *

“Another modification to the Walther, Q?  Let me guess, this one also makes a delightful macchiato?”

“Just for that, 007, I will give you the one that _doesn_ ’t have the spare clip that also serves as a tea strainer…”

* * *

“Well, I see that you’re improving your record with the equipment, 007.  Your firearm is only in _seven_ pieces this time…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Q.  The one before this was very much in one piece — the last I saw of it disappearing into the Persian Gulf…”

* * *

In truth, Bond’s sarcastic words masked a growing respect for the young Quartermaster.  He had known Q was brilliant — that much had been obvious within a few moments of meeting the young man.  He had certainly known that Q was desirable — that observation perhaps had taken even less time.  And yet, the more time Bond spent in Q Branch, the more he started to notice _other_ things about Q as well.  

Like how Q worried incessantly over his agents in the field, the constant upgrades to his tech just another manifestation of his deep concern for their welfare.  Or how formidably calm Q became in a crisis — his crisp voice steady and deliberate, not a word wasted as he guided his agents through the most perilous of situations, making the hard choices without the slightest hesitation or self-doubt.

Slowly — mission after mission — Bond found himself forging some sort of relationship with Q that was different from anything in his experience.  Too charged to be friendship, but completely unique from the heedless, passionate lust Bond had experienced in the past.  A slow and enduring smoulder where Bond had previously only indulged in ephemeral bursts of flame, extinguished as quickly as they flared.

It was a game, and playing it made Bond feel alive — every synapse in his brain firing to keep up with Q’s quicksilver wit, his blood burning in his veins as they managed to skirt so very dangerously close to the invisible line they seemed to have mutually drawn.

Bond took immense pleasure in teasing Q over the comms, every statement carefully phrased so as to seem relatively innocent should anyone care to review the transcripts.  And Q gave as good as he got, that posh dry voice of his somehow managing the filthiest of insinuations in the blandest of tones.

They were more circumspect in person, ever-conscious of the curious eyes of the minions.  Nonetheless, tension snapped in the air despite the careful distance they kept between themselves.  Just stepping into Q Branch made Bond’s skin hum, every nerve-ending prickling with anticipation of Q’s nearness.  

He never knew which Q he would encounter.  Q in the depths of research was sardonic and witty, sparring with Bond briefly before sending him on his way.  Q caught in the rare instances of downtime at Q Branch was playful, his extraordinary eyes sparkling with mischief, his voice as warm and honeyed as the cup of Earl Grey perpetually at his elbow.  Q in the midst of a crisis was formidable, his voice crisp and decisive, fingers dancing over multiple keyboards, tension only evident in the stiffness of his spine until the agent was in the clear.

And the agents always did make it clear.  Q’s record was unparalleled, his remarkable mind infinitely inventive.  He seemed to marshal resources from out of thin air, pushing the minions to ever more impossible feats, managing to extricate his field agents from even the most hopeless of circumstances.  

Q’s moniker was spoken in only the most reverent tones in the hallways and training rooms and rifle ranges at MI6 Headquarters.  Q was a wizard, a marvel, a genius.  Q was infallible.

Which made it all the more shocking for everyone when Q failed.

* * *

Before Q took the helm, the death of a double-oh would hardly have seemed notable.  Sudden, but by no means unexpected.  The life of a double-oh was invariably both short and brutal.  Somehow, during Q’s reign, everyone seemed to have forgotten this fact, most of all Q himself.  

Bond heard the first whispers of it on the transport back.  His mission had been entirely mundane, notable only for the complete absence of Q from his comms.  Bond wasn’t concerned; it happened from time to time, particularly on low priority missions.  Q had to sleep some time, and at other times would get so engrossed in data analysis or research and development that he would disappear for days, only called back to comms for the most critical circumstances.

This time, however, the whispers of Q’s name were furtive, not admiring.  By the time Bond made it to Medical, he knew most of the story already.  009 had been killed in action, mere hours ago, on Q’s watch.

Bond had the after action report pulled up on his tablet by the time they were wrapping his sprained ankle.  It could have happened to anyone — a crucial bit of intel delivered just a moment too late, a blind spot in the street surveillance cameras, a sniper in an area that was supposed to have been cleared.  It was only remarkable in that it had happened to Q.

Bond told himself that it was procedure, not concern, that had him limping down to Q Branch with a crutch shoved under his arm as soon as he could break free from Medical.  After all, he may have lost his gun and radio, but he still had his watch to return to Q.  It was a bit smashed, but Q was so adamant about equipment return.  And he had tinkered with this one endlessly, packing the slim silver case with function after function that he thought might benefit Bond on his mission.

A pall seemed to hang over all of Q Branch, the minions all hunkered down at their desks, speaking in hushed undertones.  Bond felt their eyes following him as he limped toward Q’s office.  

The smart glass surrounding Q’s office was opaque even though the lights were clearly on inside.  Bond hesitated, and then took the unprecedented step of knocking.  He took a deep breath after hearing the muffled “Enter,” preparing himself for what he might find.  Q angry, or shaken — perhaps even in tears.  What he found turned out to be so much worse.

“Equipment, 007?”  Q’s voice was flat, toneless.  “Very well, hand it here.  Just the watch I see.”

“Q,” Bond placed the shattered watch on Q’s desk, looking him over carefully.  Q’s face was drawn and pale, dark smudges under his eyes.  

Q tapped his tablet a few times, logging in the tech without a comment as to its damaged condition.  Then he turned back to his keyboard dismissively, leaving Bond lingering, uncertain where to begin.

“Anything else, 007?” Q finally asked.

“I heard what happened,” Bond hazarded.

“Yes.  Well.  No such thing as secrets in an organization of spies, now is there?”  Q’s eyes lifted briefly to Bond’s.  His usual lively gaze was deadened, eyes so blank with numb detachment that Bond was almost relieved when Q looked back at his monitor.  Q’s pale hands hovered over the keyboard, trembling almost imperceptibly for a moment before he began typing, quick as ever.

“Are you — how are you?”  As soon as the words left his mouth, Bond felt himself cringing at the inanity of his question.  Bond already knew how Q was, had been there several times himself, in his darkest hours.

“I’m fine, 007,” Q said flatly.  

“Bullshit.”

The hands on the keyboard froze, the tremor becoming more pronounced for a moment before Q resumed typing.  

“Moonlighting for Psych Branch now, 007?”  The first hint of irritation was starting to creep into Q’s voice.  “I’ll have to remember to update your paycheque.”

Bond placed his palm on the desk, leaning in to try to look Q in the eye.  “Q, I know how it is —”

Q shoved his chair back, nearly upsetting Bond’s precarious balance.

 _“Do you?”_  The words were like a lash, Q’s voice icy.  

“I’ve seen more men die in the field than —”

“In the _field,”_ Q interrupted, his voice scathing.  He stood up now, his slender body practically vibrating with fury.  “In the _field,_ getting yourself shot at, jumping out of aeroplanes, exploding fucking _buildings.”_  His chest was heaving, the words spitting out like gunfire.  “You’re always out _there_ , in the _field_.  You have absolutely _no idea_ what it’s like, to be the one _here_ — the one back home.  On the other end of the comm, _helpless_.  While _you’re_ getting shot, while you’re _dying_ , crying and moaning and gurgling your last breath.   _We’re_ the ones who have to listen to that — who have to _live_ with that.  You’re _dead_ , you don’t care. _We’re_ the ones left behind.” 

All the fury seemed to leave Q in a rush.  He sank down into his chair again, swallowing thickly.  He pulled his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment.  The eyes that looked back up at Bond were no longer flat and lifeless.  They were limpid and vulnerable, eyelashes clumped with unshed tears.

 _“That’s_ what you have no idea about,” Q said, hoarsely, tiredly.  “What it’s like to be the one left behind.”

Bond felt something in his chest tighten uncomfortably.  He thought of a boy cowering in a dark priest-hole, and knew that Q’s words weren’t exactly true.  But he also knew that Q wasn’t talking about Bond, not really.  So he stood in silence, leaning heavily on his crutch, not knowing what to say but reluctant to leave Q alone in his misery.

Finally Q sighed.  He placed his glasses carefully back on his face and leaned back in his chair.  Now that some of the tension was gone his body seemed languid with exhaustion, head tilted back to expose the long pale expanse of his throat.  Typically such a sight would have fueled Bond’s desire, but now it only seemed to instill in him some unfamiliar sense of tenderness.  

Perhaps some of what Bond was feeling showed on his face.  A shadow of something unreadable passed through Q’s eyes and then he was straightening up, pulling absently at his cuffs.  

“Well,” Q said awkwardly.  “I had best get finished, so I can get some sleep.”  He turned toward the keyboard, and then paused, looking back at Bond.  “I do appreciate it though, Bond.  Your — stopping by.”

Bond fumbled his crutch, equally discomfited.  “Certainly, Q.  Any time.”  He nodded curtly, and then stumped toward the door, suddenly desperate to escape.  Behind him, he heard the rapid tapping of Q’s fingers over the keyboard resume.  As Bond shut the door he caught a final glimpse of Q, the pale vulnerable neck bowed, curly head bent once again to his work.

 


	5. Chapter 5

“007.  Stand down.”  Q’s voice was firm.

“I’ve almost got him,” Bond growled, veering wildly onto the shoulder.  Whatever Q said next was lost in the horrific screech as the side of Bond’s stolen car scraped the guardrail, sending up a shower of sparks.

“ — have him on satellite, 007.  The beta team will intercept.”  

Bond jammed the accelerator to the floor, nudging the hostile’s back bumper as his own car juddered across the uneven shoulder of the road.  “Almost there,” he ground out.

Q’s voice was icy now.  “Final warning, 007.  Stand _down.”_

Bond clenched his jaw as he wrenched the steering wheel hard to the left, jolting back down off the shoulder and onto the main road with a crackle of breaking glass, trying to get close enough to the hostile’s car to run it off the road.  “Just one more —”

With a chirp the car’s engine suddenly cut out, the dashboard electrical systems dimming.  Bond cursed violently under his breath, wrestling with the steering wheel as the power steering cut out.  He barely managed to jolt onto a straight path before the car coasted gently to a stop.

An immediate cacophony of honking horns provided a backdrop to Bond’s increasingly inventive cursing.  

“What in the bloody _hell_ do you think you’re doing, Q?” Bond sputtered, in absolutely no doubt as to who had disabled the vehicle.

“Containing the situation,” Q responded crisply.  “You are ordered back to HQ, 007.  Someone will meet you at Atatürk airport with your documents.”

“Q, I swear to God if you _ever_ do something like this again — “

“Well, I would hope that next time you won’t be so foolish as to steal a vehicle with an anti-theft kill-switch,” Q interrupted snidely.  “The airport is approximately seven kilometres north north-east.  Enjoy your walk,” he added, punctuating his remarks with the sharp click of the comm line being disconnected.

* * *

Bond stormed into MI6 headquarters.  As he rounded the next corner Tanner, who was headed toward him, took one look at his face and abruptly detoured into what Bond was fairly certain was a cleaning supplies cupboard.

Bond continued into Q Branch unimpeded, the force of his ire carrying him all the way into Q’s office.  He slammed the door behind him and smacked the switch to turn the smart glass opaque.

Q leaned back in his desk chair, fiddling idly with a fountain pen.  “I see the walk did nothing to calm your temper, 007,” he said serenely.

“God _dammit_ , Q,” Bond began, leaning forward with both palms on Q’s desk before straightening up again with a hiss of pain.

“You have a hairline fracture of your left distal radius,” Q said, reaching out without looking and tapping a key on his computer keyboard.  A monitor facing Bond lit up with his full-body x-ray from the Atatürk airport security screening, the bone of his left forearm helpfully circled in red.  “You should be in Medical.”

Bond felt something in his jaw creak under the strain of his grinding teeth.  He rounded the desk, looming over Q as the Quartermaster continued to spin the fountain pen in his clever long fingers.

“You smug little — “

Q finally looked up, his grey-green eyes bright with amusement.  Bond’s brain seemed to come to a grinding halt.  

“You’re _enjoying_ this,” Bond accused.

Q’s mouth quirked.  “Just a bit.”  

“You —”  Bond found himself suddenly unable to shift his focus from those pink lips.  “You’re _teasing_ me?  By stranding me by the roadside in Istanbul?”

“A bit unorthodox, I’ll admit.”

“What?  Why — ?”  Bond realized he was close to babbling and drew in a breath, gathering his thoughts.  In the way Q always seemed to be able to send his emotions for a loop, Bond found himself completely drained of anger, nothing left behind but confusion and the slow-simmering lust that seemed to be inextricably linked to Q’s presence. He crouched down in front of Q, meeting his eyes.  “You _want_ this.”

Q swiveled his chair to fully face Bond, his expression serious now, the fountain pen grasped in his fist.  “Wanting something doesn’t mean acting on it.”

Bond leaned in closer, breathing in Q’s scent and body heat, feeling the slow-simmering lust burst into sudden flame.  There was a stray smudge of ink on Q’s jaw and Bond intensely, fervidly wanted to lick it off.

“I myself am a man of action,” Bond rumbled, fixing his gaze back on those decadent lips, and the pink tongue that was emerging to nervously wet them.

Q’s hand grasped the knot of Bond’s tie, stilling him as he started to push forward.  “This is not a decision you are entitled to make unilaterally, Bond,” he said severely.  “I will only give you one warning this time.”

Bond barely processed the words, his head spinning from post-mission adrenaline, sleep deprivation, and pure, heady desire.

“You talk too much, Q,” Bond muttered, leaning in against Q’s hold to steal the kiss anyway.  The last thing he saw was Q’s expressive mouth pressed into a hard line.  He felt the nib of the fountain pen pressed against his neck, felt every muscle in his body tensing as an incapacitating electric shock jolted through him, and then he felt nothing.

* * *

Bond woke up in a bed in Medical, his throat dry and his muscles aching.  

“Ah, you’re awake!”  Dr. Yi said all-too-cheerfully.  “We were quite concerned — a double-oh fainting in the Quartermaster’s office!  Not something that happens every day.”

“Wha — “ Bond managed through a mouth that felt stuffed with cottonwool as the doctor pried one of his eyelids open to shine a light in it before handing him a glass of water.

“Nothing to be concerned about.  Probably just a delayed reaction to your injuries.  None of us are as young as we used to be, eh?” Dr. Yi added with a smile.  She looked all of twenty-five, and Bond wanted to strangle her.  He felt his fists clench in reaction followed by a bolt of pain down his left arm.

“The cast will be replaced in about three weeks, and come off for good three weeks after that.  You know the drill,” Dr. Yi said.  “I’ll just go and get your discharge papers ready, shall I?”

She breezed out of the room, leaving Bond blinking stupidly at the cast that encased his left forearm, a stark white expanse except for one line scribbled in thick black ink.  

**Best wishes for a speedy recovery.  — Q.**


	6. Chapter 6

Rome was sweltering.  The cats that typically lay sprawling in the sun, fat and lazy throughout the Villa Borghese gardens, were all hidden in the shade.  The Galleria Borghese itself was almost deserted, the ticket agent looking half-asleep as she collected Bond’s eleven Euros and unenthusiastically pushed a map to the exhibits across the desk.

Bond tucked the map into the breast pocket of his suit, familiar enough with this particular drop site that he could navigate by memory.  It was only slightly cooler inside, Bond’s footsteps echoing softly throughout the entrance hall as he traversed the floor mosaic of valiant gladiators.  Above his head a bas relief of a horse and rider lunged from the wall, tumbling toward an endless void in a chaotic mass of marble-carved bulging muscles and flailing limbs.

“Auspicious,” Bond muttered.

He ambled through the rooms, stopping from time to time in front of different works of art, lulled by the hushed and heavy summer air.  

[He hadn’t been told who to expect at the live drop, and so it was easy to tell himself that it was surprise and not joy that made his heart stutter in his chest at the sight of the familiar slim figure and disorderly mop of hair.](https://38.media.tumblr.com/00ef555ce05537aee8d51c788f68512e/tumblr_ngwzjaF6my1to0gq8o1_1280.jpg)

Bond moved closer, breathing in the familiar scent of Q’s shaving soap in the dusty air.  In comparison to their first meeting Q looked less art student this time and more art professor, in a crisp white shirt and slim-fitting grey waistcoat.  A collection of tabbed folders was shoved under one arm as he scribbled in a notebook, apparently intent on the graceful sculpture in front of them.

Bond moved closer, clearing his throat.  “Some call this Bernini’s finest work,” he remarked.

Q looked up, his eyes lit to a clear celadon by a shaft of sunlight.  “It certainly is expressive,” he replied.

“Personally, I think _Pluto and Persephone_ has more artistic value,” Bond said.

“An amazing contrast of tenderness and cruelty,” Q agreed.

Bond was already smirking as Q completed the code phrase.  “You must have written that one yourself,” he muttered under his breath.  “It has ‘pretentious wanker’ written all over it.”

“Surprisingly, no.”  Q pushed the bridge of his glasses up his nose.  “I will admit a preference for this drop site, however.  Agents are not known for being timely, and I could look at this sculpture for hours."

Bond looked at Q in surprise.  “You’ve used this site before?”

Q’s attention was still fixed on the sculpture, his grey-green eyes even more astonishingly bright despite his thick-rimmed spectacles.  “Daphne and Apollo and I are old friends,” he said, his voice tinged with melancholy.

He seemed to suddenly become aware of Bond again, clearing his throat.  “Station R was my first posting,” he explained, his voice now carefully scrubbed of emotion.  “I was here for three years before I was transferred into Technical Services in London.”

There was something about Q’s face that seemed unusually vulnerable.  Perhaps it was whatever bittersweet memories the drop site had elicited, or perhaps it was just seeing Q like this — out in the field, stripped of all his usual technological defenses.  Bond felt that ever-present pull towards Q tightening, his every instinct urging him closer.  

“Q,” Bond said helplessly.  He reached out almost unthinkingly, his palm landing on Q’s shoulder, his thumb just brushing the skin of Q’s pale neck.  He could _feel_ Q lean into his touch for just a moment, his pulse flickering faster against the pad of Bond’s thumb.

Then Q shied away, stepping aside so that Bond’s hand fell free to dangle uselessly at his side.  Bond felt the sting of rejection once again, the hand that had reached out to Q now clenched in anger as sour humiliation curdled his gut.

“No wonder you like this one,” he said bitterly.  He saw the surprise in Q’s expression, and it only fueled his ire.  “What, did you think the uncultured swine of a field agent wouldn’t know the myth?  Daphne, always staying a step ahead of Apollo, so determined to remain distant from him that she’d rather turn herself to wood?”  

Bond’s eyes moved to the statue again.  The look on Apollo’s face was stunned — _bereft_ — and just looking at it made Bond feel ridiculously like that poor, pathetic dupe carved in stone — frozen in eternal rejection for anyone to gawp at.

Bond clenched his jaw, aware that his face was probably flushed red with anger and humiliation, aware that he was acting like an unreasonable arsehole but unable to stop himself.  “Fucking _tease,”_ he snarled, leaving it open to interpretation to whom he was actually referring.

Q was angry now as well, his back rigid, a spot of pink vivid on each cheek.  “Certainly, you may borrow my pen,” he said stiffly, extending it to Bond.  

Bond narrowed his eyes at the fountain pen for a moment, wondering if Q was trying to shock him again, before he remembered that the purpose of this meeting was, in fact, an information drop.

“Thank you,” he said, equally formally, taking the proffered pen and shoving it into his breast pocket.  He just wanted to be gone now — wanted a drink and a soft bed and perhaps a warm body to seduce, someone who would help him forget about how much he wanted the infuriatingly distant young man who stood right beside him.

“You might use it to make a note of the inscription on the statue,” Q said acerbically.  “It would be quite instructive for someone of your...proclivities.”

With that cryptic parting remark Q turned, making his way back through the sun-streaked gallery room.  Bond watched him until he disappeared from sight, leaving Bond staring dully at the statue in a welter of emotion.  Christ, he had lost his temper, but what in the hell did Q want from him?

He held out for all of five minutes before curiosity drew him closer.  He had never noticed the inscription on the statue’s base before, but now he squinted at it, trying to decipher the spidery lines of text.

_**Those who love to pursue fleeting forms of pleasure, in the end find only leaves and bitter berries in their hands.** _


	7. Chapter 7

The water surrounded him, dark and murky, pressing him down.  He could feel his lungs burn, near to bursting, craving oxygen.  He needed air, but he couldn’t surface — not until he found who he was looking for.  He didn’t even know who it was, only that he would rather die than leave them behind.  Finally, his desperately flailing hand met warm flesh and he grasped a slender wrist tightly, kicking frantically toward what he hoped was the surface.   

He broke the surface in a burst, coughing and sputtering, dragging the dead weight with him toward the water’s edge.  His head was spinning with confusion and gibbering panic for the person in his grasp.  All he knew was that it was someone very precious.  Someone he couldn’t let go of, no matter what.

He dragged himself out of the water, fingers scrabbling and scraping against the rocky edge of the — river?  Canal?  All he knew was that he had to make it, had to protect… 

He pulled the weight of the body up behind him, dragging it onto the shore.  With a final heave they were both on the rough ground.  Gravel dug into Bond’s knees as he looked down at the body cradled in his arms.  Q’s face was grey and slack, his usually vivid grey-green eyes hazed and lifeless.  Bond pressed at the unmoving chest, willing it to rise and fall again, but it was useless.  Water gurgled from Q’s nose and mouth but Q remained cold and still.  Q was gone, his life had slipped through Bond’s clumsy fingers, leaving Bond empty and alone. 

* * *

Bond jolted awake, his breath heaving, his pulse racing.  He kicked off the smothering covers, feeling the cold air of the room prickle against the sweat on his skin.  Even though his eyes were open to the darkness of the room, he could still see Q’s pale, still face, Q’s beautiful eyes lifeless and staring, his mobile pink mouth blue and lax in death. 

He hit the button to activate the comm before he even realized it.   

“007?”  Q’s voice in his ear was immediate.  “Your vitals spiked, do you require assistance?” 

“Q?”  Bond felt thick-headed, his thoughts still gummed up with exhaustion and the lingering effects of panic.  The dream had been so vivid, his grief so piercing, that it seemed almost incomprehensible that Q was actually still alive. 

_“Q?”_ Bond found himself repeating stupidly.  He felt as if there were things he wanted desperately to say, all jammed up in his chest, and he couldn’t get out anything but Q’s name. 

“Yes, I’m here, 007.  Status report?”  The crisp, businesslike tone of Q’s voice helped push Bond further into full consciousness.  He felt Q’s voice settle something within him, the tight spasm of his chest easing, and as his panic receded he started to feel foolish.   

“I’m fine, Q.  Just — a false alarm.” 

He should have known better than to try to dissemble.  A few taps of the keyboard on the other end of the comm line and Q’s voice returned, his tone unbearably gentle. 

“You were in REM sleep when your vitals spiked.  Bad dream?” 

_Irritating man._  In the lingering panic of his nightmare, Bond had forgotten how angry he was with Q.  “Maybe you should have been here to tuck me in,” Bond jibed. 

“Mmmm.  Have you forgotten so soon?  The lovely mark did that,” Q responded.

And damn, but Bond _had_ forgotten.  Had more or less forgotten her the moment he had ushered her out the door and stepped into the shower to wash her scent off his body.  Bond lay back down on the pillows, suddenly feeling very hollow inside. 

“Leaves and bitter berries,” he found himself murmuring aloud.  He pulled in a long, somewhat shaky breath.  “Is that really what you think is going on between us?” 

He could hear Q’s indrawn breath and the tense silence on the other end of the line.  “If you do not require assistance, 007, perhaps I should let you get back to sleep,” Q finally said. 

“Don’t.”  Bond ground his face into the pillow in frustration.  He must not be thinking clearly, to be asking questions that he didn’t really want answered.  “Just — don’t do that, Q.  Stay on the line with me a bit.  We don’t — we don’t have to talk about anything much.” 

Bond could hear Q’s hesitation, the pause for several long beats before Q seemed to make up his mind.  “Very well.  What would you like to talk about?” 

Bond turned onto his back, feeling the slight ache in his muscles from the vigorous sex earlier that evening.  Christ, he was getting old.  The ceiling was just a dim grey shadow above him.  “I don’t know.  Anything.” 

Q was silent for another long moment.  “Do you have bad dreams often?” 

Bond snorted.  “Can’t you run an algorithm or something on my sleep patterns and vitals to find out?  It’s not like I can have many secrets from you, Q.”  The words came out more bitter than he had intended. 

“I could, easily,” Q said calmly.  “But I’d rather hear it from you.”  Q had stopped typing, and Bond could hear the quiet noise in the background of Q spinning his fountain pen, as he only did when deep in thought.   

“Does it bother you, me knowing such things?” Q finally asked.  “I consider the well-being of all agents to be within my purview, and that includes their emotional health as well.” 

“It does, a bit,” Bond said.  His emotions were still flayed bare by the nightmare, and it was easier to tell the truth like this — cocooned in the darkness of a pre-dawn morning, over a comm line.  “It’s all very one-sided.” 

“Hmmmm.”  Bond heard the pen spin again a few more times as Q marshalled his thoughts.  “I suppose I never thought of it that way.  It’s not as if anyone would be very interested in knowing such details about _me.”_

“I would,” Bond said.  The bare honesty of the words seemed to echo in the quiet room. 

Q’s voice was low, confidential when he spoke again.  “I have the occasional bad dream as welll,” he admitted.  Bond felt so attuned to Q on the other end of the line that he could practically see him.  The wheels on his desk chair whirred as Q pushed back, his clothes rustling as he stood.  Bond could hear the slight sigh of Q stretching his back, and then the squeak of leather as he settled on to the sofa in his office.  “Some are horrid, others just...disconcerting.  There was one the other night — it wasn’t too bad, just odd, but I keep thinking about it.  It was...vexing.” 

Bond turned over on his side.  It felt intimate somehow, Q’s voice so clear in Bond’s ear that they could almost be in the same bed, side by side, sharing their secrets.  “What was it about?” 

Q sighed softly.  Bond closed his eyes, imagining that he could feel the soft breath of that sigh against his own skin.   

“I was in Q Branch, actually.  It was late, and I was alone in the branch, as I often am.  I went to make a cup of tea, but the cupboard was empty.  So I thought I would pop out and borrow some.  I went to Applications, but no one was there either.  So on to Enterprise Management, and still not a soul around.  And then on and on that way...Research, Language Specialists, Facilities, Finance...and then through the interrogation rooms, and training rooms, the gymnasium.  The library, the canteen, all the labs — even the shooting range.”  Bond could tell Q was trying to keep his tone light, but still the echo of the dream seemed to haunt his voice.  “Everywhere I went — every desk abandoned, every chair empty.  No one here but me.”

“What happened next?” Bond asked.   

“I came back to Q Branch, and started accessing the comms.  Trying to check in with the agents in the field, but every line was just...static.  I kept trying them one by one, call sign after call sign, but they were all gone as well.”

“And then?” 

“And then I woke up, quite cranky and craving my tea, of course.”  Bond could almost hear Q smile, could almost see the way his eyes would crinkle in the corners and the sly quirk of his mouth as he made the self-deprecating comment.  Q’s voice grew sober again, meditative.  “But I kept thinking of it, at odd times the next few days.”

“What do you think it means?” 

Q hummed thoughtfully on the other end of the line.  “You _are_ moonlighting for Psych Branch, aren’t you?” he teased.  “I don’t know.  Does it have to mean something?  All I know is that I didn’t like it.”

“Well, this _is_ a lonely profession,” Bond mused.

“Is it?”  Bond could hear the surprise in Q’s voice.  “I mean, is it for you?” 

Bond thought of the woman earlier, the unsatisfying sex and the hollowness left behind.  “Of course.  Did you think it wasn’t?” 

“I suppose...I hadn’t thought so.  You — all the agents always seem to be surrounded by...admirers.” 

Bond felt his mouth twist bitterly.  “Admirers?  Acquaintances at the most.  Marks and targets, more often.  A hazard of the profession.” 

The silence that fell after that statement was contemplative, but strangely comfortable.  Bond felt his mind drifting, half on his way back to falling asleep. 

“I used to like to be alone.”  Q’s soft words broke through the silence.  “As long as my mind was occupied, I didn’t feel the need to be around other people.  There was something about solitude that I enjoyed.  It was...safe.  Predictable, whereas other people were not.” 

“And now?” 

Q sounded like he might be falling asleep as well, his voice slower, slightly slurred on the consonants.  “I don’t know.  Not as much, perhaps.  Do you suppose someone can just reach their limit?  A lifetime supply of solitude is filled, and then they are suddenly just...lonely instead?” 

“I don’t know,” Bond said.  “But I think, unpredictable as they are, that other people are important.”  

Q didn’t answer, and Bond lay in silence, listening to Q’s slow, steady breathing until it turned into a gentle snuffle of sleep.  Even then, when he was certain Q would not hear him, he couldn’t say the words aloud, but the thought was clear in his head. _You are important to me, Q.  Whatever this is between us, it’s not just the fleeting pursuit of pleasure.  It’s important to me._

He closed his eyes, leaving the comm line open, listening to the quiet sighs and susurrations of Q’s slumber until sleep claimed him as well.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Less than a week later, the mission went to hell.  

Bond had been forced to ditch his earwig days earlier, when he first went under deep cover.  Without Q Branch to guide him, he barely managed to escape Salvatici’s facility with the needed data.  He then wandered for hours, muddying his trail wherever possible, ensuring that no one could possibly have tracked him.  Finally, bone-weary and bedraggled, he limped into a pensione at random, pulling his jacket closed over missing buttons to hide the worst of the blood spatters. 

The sharp-eyed grandmother behind the desk seemed dangerously close to throwing him out on his ear the longer she looked him over, and he mustered up the energy to smile charmingly at her.  He accepted the room key gratefully, stumping up the narrow staircase and cursing as the old-fashioned metal key stuck in the lock. 

He swung the heavy door open, his hand immediately flying to his holstered gun as he perceived the shape within.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, letting his gun settle back into place as he kicked the door shut behind him.

“Thank you for not shooting me, 007,” Q said calmly, continuing to connect wires on some sort of contraption he was assembling on a spindly little secretary desk in the corner.   

_“Yet,”_ Bond added darkly. 

Q quirked an unimpressed eyebrow.  “Do you have the intel?” 

Bond sighed, pulling Q’s data pen from his secure inner pocket and sending it spinning through the air in a lazy arc.  He was slightly irked when Q caught it seemingly effortlessly.   

Bond flopped onto the bed, desperately wishing he had cadged a bottle of something out of the pensione manager before climbing the stairs.  A drink or five would be very welcome right now, but he’d be damned if he was making the trip all the way downstairs again.  Maybe he could send his uninvited guest to deal with the woman. 

He squinted resentfully at Q, who looked crisp and fresh as he continued to set up his elaborate device, seemingly oblivious to Bond’s presence. 

“What are you even doing in Italy again, Q?  I thought you hated flying, and it’s not as if the Quartermaster is usually called upon for fieldwork in any case.” 

Q cast a rebuking look in Bond’s direction.  “I take the train, thank you for your concern.  As for the why — you’re not the only agent with an active mission in Rome, 007.  003’s op is a bit trickier and has required my on-site support from time to time, so two birds with one stone, and all that.  Or did you think I traveled all the way to Rome last time just to hand you a pen?”

Damn, but that stung.  Of course it made sense, it would have been ridiculous for the Quartermaster to have traveled abroad just to handle a live drop personally, and yet at the time Bond rather thought that he had.  That maybe Q had wanted to see him, had missed the spark betwen them as much as Bond had.  What a fool he was.  Bond closed his eyes, hoping none of what he felt was showing on his face.   

He must have looked fairly pathetic regardless, because Bond felt the bed dip at his side.  When he forced his eyes open again.  Q’s face was grave, his sharp eyes intent as they scanned the bloodstains where Bond’s jacket had fallen open.  “Are you all right, Bond?” he asked gently. 

Bond found Q’s kindness harder to deal with than his scorn.  It seemed to bypass all his defenses, making him feel things he was trying his damnedest to suppress.  “Shouldn’t you be worrying about the data, Q?”

“It’s uploading now.  And you didn’t answer my question.” 

“A bit battered, but none the worse for wear.”  Q’s expression was still concerned, almost tender, and Bond felt the irresistible compulsion to break the tension of the moment before he said something he shouldn’t.  He smirked instead, forcing his voice into a casually teasing tone.  “Care to kiss it better?” 

Q stood up abruptly.  He looked almost as if he had been struck, his body language turning guarded, his movements edgy.  “Christ, it’s as reflexive as breathing for you, isn’t it?”

Bond had expected Q to roll his eyes, to banter back.  Not to react like this — the look on his face wounded, vulnerable.  As if Bond had hurt him somehow.  As if _Bond_ was the one making things so difficult between them.     

Bond forced himself to sit up.  He was exhausted and aching, and he had almost died several times that day, and he had missed Q tremendously throughout this cursed mission.  Suddenly Bond was tired of whatever game they had been playing, and how it seemed to be drawing blood from them both.  Q was right here, and no matter how he had felt a moment ago, right now Bond wanted nothing more than to close this damnable distance he had created between them. 

“Just because —” Bond stumbled, unsure how to complete that sentence. _Just because I manipulate people on instinct?  Just because I’m a whore for my country?_  He settled on an inarticulate frustrated gesture of his hand, plowing forward regardless.  “It doesn’t mean that — that I’m not sincere.  That I don’t really mean it when I say that I want to try, with you.  You know every damned thing about me, Q.  How can you not know _that_ by now?” 

Q had frozen in place as Bond spoke, the tension in his body only increasing.  Now he sighed, his shoulders slumping.  “I suppose I did know that.”  His eyes met Bond’s squarely, his expression somber.  “That’s why it would never work, Bond.  It’s just not possible.” 

There was that harsh lash of rejection again, and Bond should be used to it by now, but this was so much worse than even before.  The certainty, the _finality_ in Q’s voice, was like a death knell for all of Bond’s unarticulated hopes, stark and brutal no matter how gently delivered.   

Bond felt his emotions veer wildly again as anger started to burn in his belly. _“That’s_ why it wouldn’t work?  First you accuse me of not being serious.  Now you say it’s because I _am_ serious, because you _do_ mean more to me, that this can’t work?”

Was this some kind of game to Q?  To work his way under Bond’s skin like shrapnel, making him ache and bleed, and then dismiss the very possibility of anything happening? 

“It’s not that simple —” Q began, but Bond had heard enough.   

“Oh, I think it’s very simple, _Sir,”_ Bond said coldly.  He was done exposing himself to Q, letting this infuriating man strip him bare and give absolutely nothing in return.  “You have the intel.  I’ll find my own way back to HQ.”  He nodded stiffly, heading for the door. 

“Bond, wait — I can’t leave until the upload is complete —” Q was saying, but Bond shut the door firmly behind himself, fury and wounded pride carrying him down the narrow staircase, past the inquisitive eyes of the manager and out into the street. 

Bond walked blindly, the chill of the evening air intensifying the aching in his bones, his hands trembling from the combination of post-adrenaline crash and emotion.  His mind felt dull, his thoughts circling and then scattering uselessly.  How had he let himself get to here?  When had simple flirtation turned into this abject humiliation?  What had Bond been _thinking_ , to lay himself open to a man who responded only with cold-blooded clichés? 

“It’s not that simple,” Bond muttered to himself as Q’s words echoed mockingly in his memory.  “Fucking _hell.”_  Like anything between them had ever been simple.   

Bond was so wrapped up in his turbulent thoughts that it took him an inexcusably long time to recognize that he was being followed.  Suddenly hyperaware of his surroundings, he realized that he had wandered into a smaller warren of streets too narrow for cars, the buildings around him shuttered and empty. 

He unobtrusively pulled his weapon, quickly taking account.  Down to his last clip, and he had fired six rounds fighting his way out of Salvatici’s facility just a few hours ago, leaving only four. Fuck, but he should have at least had the sense to grab another magazine off of the no-doubt well-stocked Q before leaving the pensione.

He subtly altered his course, quieting his footsteps while listening more intently to the ones behind him.  Two on foot.  Perhaps they were simple muggers, taking advantage of what appeared to be a lost tourist, but Bond was unlikely to be so lucky.  Salvatici would be looking for him, and it hadn’t even entered Bond’s mind to be on alert. 

Outpacing them was not an option, still injured as he was.  He scanned the street for a defensible position, conscious that every moment of delay reduced his options further.  There was a skip jutting out into the pavement a few paces away.  It would have to do. 

Bond ducked behind it swiftly, just as the first shot rang out, low to the ground.  They were shooting to disable, not to kill, and that might give him some advantage.  He returned fire, ducking low around the side of the skip and then dropping to the ground as bullets ricocheted off the skip and the brick wall behind him. 

One of the men fell to the ground, head hitting the cobblestones with a resounding crack.  Bond peered down the street, but the other man had taken cover. _Fuck._  Bond had needed to take them both out, swiftly, and he had failed.  For all he knew they had already reported his position.  He didn’t have the ammunition to hold off reinforcements. 

He held his position, listening intently, watching the shadows on the wall opposite.  The footsteps were quiet, but they were approaching.  Just a bit closer… 

Bond shoved the skip, sending it skidding towards the other man, but he managed to duck away.  Bond raised his weapon to fire his final bullet but then froze, feeling the cold muzzle of a gun pressed to the back of his neck.  Damn, he hadn’t even heard the third man approaching from behind. 

Bond held his arms up, shifting his grip to the barrel of the Walther as if to surrender his weapon.  The man in front approached cautiously, his own gun trained on Bond.  As he reached for the weapon, Bond flipped the Walther again, settling his palm on the grip.  As he fired he jolted backwards, toppling into the man behind him, sending the muzzle of his gun sliding off Bond’s neck as his weapon fired uselessly into the air.

It was chaos for a moment as the man in front of Bond sagged forward, dead already from the headshot, while Bond and the man behind him fell backward, all of them landing in a tangled heap.  Bond had used his last bullet but he wielded his empty weapon like a club, bashing backward as the man behind him scrambled for a chokehold.  Bond pushed back again, trying to slam the man against the ground, but his shoes scrabbled against the slick cobblestones, preventing him from getting the leverage he needed.

The man got an arm around Bond’s neck, squeezing as Bond reached back, trying to dig his thumbs into the man’s eyes.  The man squeezed tighter and Bond’s vision started to dim, his blood roaring in his ears.  The man twisted, keeping his arm across Bond’s throat as he slammed Bond’s head against the cobblestones.  

Pain exploded through Bond’s skull, leaving behind only a buzzing in his head that made everything seem grey and distant.  He could dimly feel the man pushing and pulling on him, but he didn’t seem to have control over his own limbs.  

Full awareness crept back slowly, starting with the muzzle of a gun once again pressed to Bond’s skin, this time at his temple.  

“-- the data?” the man was saying. 

Bond opened his eyes blearily, watching the man swim in and out of focus.  He was sitting leaned up against the brick wall now, where the man appeared to have propped him as he searched him.   

“Where’s the data?” 

Bond blinked at the man in confusion.  A hand seemed to come out of nowhere, slapping his jaw and sending his head rolling against the brick wall. 

“The data — where is it, damn you!” the man growled. 

“Take you there,” Bond slurred out.  “Jus’ — gi’me a —” 

The man’s lip curled.  “You’re lying.  You’ve passed it on already.”  Bond saw the decision on his face as the man stepped back, lifting his gun.  Bond tried to gather his strength but his limbs were limp, useless.  His head lolled helplessly, his hair catching on the rough bricks of the wall as the barrel of the man’s gun zeroed in on his head. 

_I thought you never heard the shot that killed you_ , Bond thought fleetingly as a bang echoed in the empty street, and then blackness rushed up to greet him.


	9. Chapter 9

“— fucking fuck...get the fuck up you fucking useless sodding bastard —”

“Whuh?”  Bond tried to force his eyes open.  It felt like his whole body was weighted, his eyelids most of all.  “Q?” 

“Get _up_ you lazy useless fucking arsehole —”  As Bond roused further he realized Q was pulling on his arm, trying to get Bond to his feet but lacked the strength and leverage to lift his dead weight.  “They have backup coming, you need to get _up.”_

“Go,” Bond managed to get out of a mouth that felt stuffed with cottonwool.  “Lea’me.  G’t out.” 

“Like fucking _hell_ I’ll leave you, you ridiculous sodding bastard.  Get your fucking arse _up_ you fucking —” 

“Y’ve a filthy mouth,” Bond slurred out, trying to push with his knees, managing to slide partway up the wall.   

Q shoved his shoulder in under Bond’s armpit, pushing him the rest of the way up, pulling Bond’s arm over his shoulders and half-dragging Bond a few steps. 

“Give me your fucking hypocritical lecture on my language later, you fucking goddamn _heavy_ wanker —” Q was muttering under his breath.   

Bond’s mind grew fuzzy again for a moment, hearing only the low mutter of Q’s voice like water over rocks as Bond concentrated on trying to keep his feet under him.  The cobblestone street seemed to list and tip like a ship in rough waters, and Bond found himself clinging to Q as they both stumbled along. 

“Got shot i’ th’head,” Bond mumbled, trying to defend himself against what seemed to be a slew of accusations that Q was muttering.  “Not m’fault.” 

“You didn’t get shot in the head,” Q puffed out, his wiry body straining to stabilize Bond’s erratic balance.  “You got shot _near_ the head as I shot the man shooting you in the head.  Now stop being such a sodding baby — oh, thank fucking _christ_ , a car.” 

Bond felt himself being propped up to lean against a car, the ground unsteady beneath his feet.  “Don’t you dare fucking faint on me,” Q warned before turning the seemingly never-ending stream of invectives toward the car door.  “Open up, you sodding — there.” 

Bond found himself being half-pushed and half-falling into the passenger seat of the car.  He seemed to be missing pockets of time, because the next thing he knew the car was careening through the narrow streets, Q barking instructions into his mobile. 

“Rendezvous at delta coordinates, with medics.  Tangential gunshot wound, concussive injury, possible hemorrhagic event —” Q was reciting crisply.   

Bond seemed to fade in and out a few more times, only rousing more fully to awareness as the car screeched to a stop.  Bond’s door opened and he was pulled from the car and loaded on to a stretcher.  “I c’n walk,” he mumbled irritably into the oxygen mask being pushed over his mouth, blinking against the penlight being shined in his eyes.  “Q?” 

“I’m here, Bond.”  Bond felt cold, slender fingers in his, as he was suddenly looking up at the ceiling of a helicopter.

Bond pushed the oxygen mask off his mouth irritably.  “But...y’ hate t’fly,” he protested.

Q squeezed his hand tighter, but his voice was affectionate.  “Go to sleep, Bond.” 

Bond felt the needle slip into his vein, and reality spun away from him, anchored only by the too-tight clasp of Q’s hand over his until the last scrap of awareness floated away. 

* * *

The first thing Bond felt upon waking was the pounding in his head, dull and relentless.  Next came the dryness of his throat, and the pull of aching muscles and joints.  Everything was slightly distant, muted by the familiar cottonwool sensation of pain medication.  Bond had woken up this way countless times before.  The only novel sensation was that of a hand holding his.   

“Q?” he tried to say, but only a dry rasp emerged from his throat.  He forced his eyes open, blinking against the sudden brightness.  The familiar view of a room in Medical emerged, with the much less familiar view of Q, sitting slumped over at Bond’s bedside, his arm stretched awkwardly across the rolling bedside table in order to maintain his grip on Bond’s hand. 

Bond stared at Q, befuddled.  It seemed important somehow that Q was here, at his bedside, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it meant.  Some of his memories were fuzzy, but not the memory of Q rejecting him, completely and definitively.  That recollection was crystal clear. 

He lay there, simply watching Q for long moments until Q’s hand spasmed in his and Q awoke with a sleepy startle, his grey-green eyes suddenly wide as a tentative smile spread across his face. 

“You’re awake,” Q said.  He pulled his hand somewhat self-consciously from Bond’s, scrubbing it across his face.  “Or, rather, _I’m_ awake,” he corrected sheepishly. 

“Q,” Bond managed to croak in confusion.  Q lunged for a glass of water with a straw, offering it to Bond.  The water was tepid but Bond drank it thirstily, feeling it ease his dry throat.   

“They said you’d be thirsty,” Q said.  “And likely sore, but you were very fortunate.  The bullet just grazed you here —” Q’s fingers traced a gentle line across Bond’s scalp.  “ — you didn’t even need stitches.  The concussive force was considerable, however, and created a small right frontotemporal subdural hematoma as well as a rupture of the right tympanic membrane.  And of course all that likely compounded the skull fracture and concussion you seemed to have already received here —” Bond felt those cool fingers again, this time brushing along the edge of a bandaged area on the left side of his skull.  “Your balance will be off for a bit, but it should all heal with time, and you should expect the usual symptoms of concussion — fatigue, perhaps some nausea —” 

“Q,” Bond interrupted the recitation of his injuries, his voice steadier now.  “What are you _doing_ here?” 

The question came out harsher than he had intended, colored by his utter confusion.  Q was always so distant and guarded, and now he was touching Bond so casually it was making Bond’s head spin. 

Q sat back, looking down somewhat shyly, adjusting his glasses before meeting Bond’s gaze again.  “I — I was hoping to speak to you.  Er, about that.  Assuming, of course —” 

He was interrupted by Dr. Yi bustling into the room busily.  “Mr. Bond.  So nice of you to pay us a visit again,” she smiled, her small hands swiftly checking his bandages, examining his intravenous line, shining that infernal penlight in his eyes.  “Shall I run through the usual post-concussion questions, or do you have them memorized by now?” 

Bond sighed, his eyes still on Q, who seemed to be avoiding his gaze again.  “James Bond, 11 November 1976, London, London again, MI6 headquarters.  Assuming it has been less than 24 hours, it is 14 September 2014, I was transported by helicopter after being strangled, bashed on the skull, and shot _near_ the head —” Q snorted at that.  “There is very inconveniently not a clock on the wall, but I expect by the angle of the sunlight it is around 1600 hours currently.  Did I miss anything?” 

Dr. Yi was peering in his right ear.  “A detail of the first event you remember after the injury.” 

“Of course.”  Bond waited until Q’s eyes finally met his.  “Q was there.” 

“Excellent,” Dr. Yi said.  “I understand you are being discharged into the Quartermaster’s care.  I have already given him instructions.”  Bond raised an eyebrow but Q was studiously avoiding his gaze again, a flush of pink high across his cheekbones.  “You will be discharged with a three-point cane and a gait belt, as your imbalance should persist for a few days until the inner ear inflammation heals and your left vestibular system learns to compensate.  Don’t close your eyes while standing.  You may be mildly nauseous, and of course easily fatigued.  Take your pain medications sparingly and _no_ alcohol.  Any questions?” 

“None.” 

“Very well, then.  You discharge papers should be ready in the next fifteen minutes.  Try to make it longer before your next visit, Mister Bond.”  She nodded briskly.  “Quartermaster,” before sweeping out the door again. 

An awkward silence settled after her departure.  Q was examining his folded hands intently, before finally raising his eyes.  “Bond, you have a choice of course.  You don’t have to go home with me if you don’t want —” 

“I’m not wearing a damned gait belt,” Bond interrupted. 

Q’s smile was breathtaking.  “I won’t tell.”


	10. Chapter 10

An MI6 driver was waiting for them.  “I usually take the Tube,” Q explained, as they both slid into the back of the car, Bond wrestling with the damned cane that was more a hindrance than a help.

By some unspoken agreement they were both silent in the car, but Q’s hand crept into Bond’s, and Bond was content to hold it, letting his thoughts drift, still unsure what exactly was going on but willing to find out.

Bond deliberately left the cane behind in the car and Q didn’t comment, just tightened his grip on Bond’s hand and shifted closer as they slowly climbed the stairs to Q’s flat.

Bond looked curiously around Q’s flat as Q wordlessly fixed them tea, and then scrambled eggs with toast.  He was not sure what he might have expected from Q’s living space.  Perhaps something modern and industrial, clean metal surfaces and polished stone.  Instead, Q’s flat was comfortable and homey — walls full of untidy bookcases, wide windows letting in puddles of sunshine, plants flourishing in small groups.  An enormous grey cat had roused itself from a patch of sunlight, winding its way through and around Q’s legs as he stood in the kitchen, scrambling the eggs.

It all felt a little surreal, how well Bond seemed to know Q, and yet not know him at all.  “I didn’t know you had a cat,” he finally said.  

“That’s Turing.  He just arrived one day, managed to make it past all my security measures.  He was quite persistent.”  Q smiled.  “The two of you have a lot in common.”

Bond snorted, taking another sip of his tea, letting the peace and comfort of Q’s flat settle over him.  It so different from his own, impersonal flat that he rarely visited, furnished from a store in one unemotional day of shopping to replace all the possessions sold at auction during his “death.”

When the food was prepared Q settled at the table with Bond, drinking his own cup of tea and nibbling at the toast while Bond tucked into his own eggs and toast with good appetite.

Q set another pain pill in front of Bond and he swallowed it down, feeling the headache diminish as fatigue crept over him.  He felt warm and full and strangely content, and didn’t realize his head was drooping until Q rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Come to bed,” Q said gently.

“Knew you’d ask eventually.”

“Wanker.”  But Q was laughing as he led Bond to the bedroom, helping him take off his socks and shoes and taking each article of clothing without comment as Bond stripped efficiently down to his boxer briefs and slid between the covers.

It was still early, late-afternoon summer sunlight streaming in through the windows.  Q’s bed was soft and comfortable and smelled deliciously like Q, as if Bond had his face pressed against Q’s warm skin.  He wondered if that was allowed, now.

Q slipped off his own shoes and then lay on top of the covers, fully-clothed.  His hand found Bond’s again, slim fingers gripped tight while his thumb traced small circles in Bond’s palm.

“Did you mean it?  About giving this a try?  Or rather...do you still?”  Q’s voice was carefully neutral, and if Q hadn’t taken Bond home, hadn’t _shown_ him his own intentions so clearly, Bond would resent being asked to be the one to expose himself again.  

“Yes,” he said simply, and Q’s thumb stopped circling for a moment before resuming.

“You’re brave,” Q said somewhat cryptically.  Bond made a vaguely interrogatory noise.

“About _this,_ I mean,” Q said, squeezing Bond’s hand again to indicate what _this_ was.  “You’re brave, and I’m not.  But I’m trying.  I’m...willing to try.”

“But you weren’t before?”  Bond was starting, slowly, to understand.

“I told you I was posted in Rome.  Before London.”

“Yes?”  Bond felt that he had lost the thread of the conversation again.

“I met a man there.  Lived with him, after a bit.  Loved him.”

 _Loved._  Past tense.  Belatedly, suddenly, Bond put the pieces together.  “A field agent.”

“Yes.”

“And he died.”  Bond didn’t even have to make it a question.  

“Of course he died.”  Q’s voice was strangely gentle, as if all the old bitterness had calcified into quiet resignation.  “That’s what field agents do, isn’t it?”

Q’s voice echoed in Bond’s memory.  

_You’re dead, you don’t care.  We’re the ones left behind._

He had thought at the time that Q had been talking about agents lost in the line of work. like 009.  He’d had no idea it had been so personal.  

Even without knowing about Q’s past, Bond should have realized.  Yet, out of all the reasons Q might have had for avoiding a relationship with Bond, devastation over his eventual death was the one that hadn’t occurred to Bond at all.  Bond had lived for so long knowing that few would mourn him.  Even now, the idea that he could touch Q so deeply, that he could _hurt_ Q so deeply, just by dying…

A thought occurred to him.  He was tempted to let it lie, but Q was being honest with him and deserved full honesty in return.

“I’m still a field agent, Q.  I’ll need time to recover, but if you’re under the impression that my injuries are severe enough to keep me out permanently —”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bond.  I’m well aware that your current injuries hardly rate compared to your usual misadventures.”

“Then why now?  What’s changed?”

Q sighed, turning on his side.  His eyes glowed mossy green in the fading sunlight, limpid and vulnerable.  

“I thought I could protect myself,” Q said softly.  “I thought if I — if I could keep from getting involved with you, I could stop myself from getting hurt again.  But then I saw you there, with a gun to your head.  And I didn’t feel relief, that I had kept you at a distance.  All I felt was regret, that I hadn’t had the courage to try.”

Bond was used to pushing such thoughts away, but it struck him anew how close to death he had actually come.  If Q had delayed by only a few seconds longer, or failed to track him as quickly, or wavered in his aim…

Bond had been gifted with yet another chance at life, this time with the potential of more to fill it than simply duty to his country.  If Q was willing to try, then so was he.

“So we try,” he said aloud, and Q nodded.  

Bond’s felt as if his bones were weighted, his eyelids heavy.  He yawned even as he reeled Q in, settling his slender form more closely into the curve of his body.

* * *

When Bond woke up in the night, head pounding and mouth dry, Q was ready with a pain pill and glass of cold water.  The simple comfort of being cared for was something that Bond hadn’t experienced since he was a child.  

Bond settled back into Q’s bed.  At some point Q had changed into a threadbare t-shirt and pajama bottoms and burrowed under the covers with Bond.  It was remarkable how easily they fit together, Q’s head on Bond’s shoulder, their legs tangled together.  

Bond couldn’t remember the last time he had been able to sleep next to someone without a part of himself remaining on guard.  It felt strange and yet freeing, like some hard shell of himself had been cracked open wide.  He trusted Q, and so he allowed himself to fall into that softness, succumb fully to that vulnerability — luxuriate, even, in the novel sensation.  He nuzzled closer into Q, breathing in the warmth and comfort of his skin, and slept.

* * *

He had been dreaming, a lovely dream about Q.  Q’s silky hair sliding thickly through his fingers, Q’s beautiful hands clenched tight enough to leave bruises on his hips, Q’s sweet mouth hot around his cock…

He woke slowly, reluctantly, arousal thrumming through his body, pooling honey-thick in his groin.  As he surfaced sluggishly he became aware of the warm scent of Q’s body, the puff of Q’s breath against his skin.  Bond was sprawled out on his back, Q draped across his chest, and Bond had been slowly, mindlessly rutting up into the softness of his body.

Bond stilled his hips with an effort, blinking against watery sunlight to stare down at the mop of dark hair puddled in the center of his chest.  

“Don’t stop, you arse,” Q murmured sleepily and Bond groaned, his hips bucking once involuntarily, sending a delicious sizzle up his spine.

Q stretched languorously before settling even more heavily across Bond’s body with a happy sigh, his thigh riding high against Bond’s hardening cock.  He snuck his arms underneath Bond’s shoulders before nestling his own stiff cock into the hollow of Bond’s hip, churning his hips lazily.

Bond mumbled his approval into Q’s hair.  He swept his palms down the arch of Q’s spine, feeling the muscles flexing and relaxing under the thin fabric of Q’s t-shirt.  When he reached the small of Q’s back he slid one hand up under Q’s shirt, spreading his palm against the warmth of Q’s back.  The other hand eased inside the waistband of Q’s pajama bottoms, cupping the firm curve of his arse.  

Bond tightened his grip, helping Q grind down against him harder, slow languid thrusts that had them both dragging in harsh breaths in no time.  Bond broke away to tug at the hem of Q’s t-shirt and Q pushed up a little, allowing Bond to pull the shirt up over his head.

Q’s face was sleep-soft, his grey-green eyes lambent in the pale early morning light, his lush mouth lax and dazed.  A ruddy pink flush was creeping across his chest and cheeks.  He leaned down, nose nudging Bond’s cheek for a moment before catching his lips in a kiss, remarkably sweet and chaste in comparison to the dirty grind of their bodies.  

Bond let Q set the pace, and Q seemed content to tease, licking slowly into Bond’s mouth before sucking gently on his tongue, the rocking of his body into Bond’s steady and relentless, just enough to keep the pleasure building.

Bond hauled Q a little higher up his body, running his thumb over Q’s nipple before suckling it, making Q shudder.  Q’s hands pulled at Bond’s hair as Bond worried the dark pink nub, making it puffy and hard as Q huffed increasingly desperate noises above him.

Finally Q pulled back a bit, his breath shaky as he resettled himself.  Their cocks were now aligned, pressed hard together against the thin barrier of Q’s pajama bottoms and Bond’s briefs.  Q’s face was set now, focused, his mouth slightly open and his cheeks pink as he began grinding against Bond in earnest.  He was beautiful like this, fever-hot, chasing his own pleasure, arms shaking slightly where they braced themselves over Bond’s chest.  

Bond couldn’t help the groan that escaped him, his head thrown back as he rutted up into the pressure.  The bed was squeaking as they thrust together frantically, mindlessly, and Q was making soft little fretful noises that seemed to go straight to Bond’s cock.  Christ, Bond wanted to know what Q sounded like when he came, wanted to pull that from him.  Just the thought of it had Bond close to coming, grunting out his pleasure as he rolled his hips up again and again.

Q ground downward once more with a choked, broken sob and Bond was coming in his pants, messy and hot, fucking up against Q all the way through it until Q came as well in shivery little pulses, mouth pressed hot against the skin of Bond’s neck.

They lay together in a boneless heap, catching their breath.  Finally Q rolled from the bed, stripping off his own bottoms unselfconsciously as he fetched a warm damp flannel, wiping both himself and Bond down with tender care before burrowing back into Bond’s arms.    

“I’m probably bollocks at relationships,” Bond confessed into Q’s warm skin.  “I’m selfish and I drink too much.  I sleep with other people for my job, and I have absolutely no domestic skills.”

Bond could feel Q smile against the skin of his neck.  “I work too much and clean almost never,” Q murmured in return.  “When I’m engrossed in a project I’ll forget you exist.  And sometimes the cat runs around like a lunatic at 3 a.m. for absolutely no reason that I have ever been able to determine.”   

“Mmm,” Bond hummed thoughtfully into Q’s ear, making him squirm.  “Sounds like a bad deal.  I might have to sleep on it some more.”

“Please do so.”  Bond felt Q’s fingers in his hair, brushing tenderly around his dressing.  “I’ll be here when you wake up.”


End file.
